


Compulsion

by thefrankydoyles



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12027681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrankydoyles/pseuds/thefrankydoyles
Summary: All Bridget desperately wanted to do, when Franky Doyle crumbled to the floor not six feet in front of her, was crumble right there with her. (Post 3x07)





	Compulsion

A rush of air left Bridget's lungs as she ran another hand through her unraveling ponytail. She slouched forward at her desk, her tense muscles caving under the weight of her thoughts.  
  
She forced herself to glance at the clock.  
  
Twenty minutes.  
  
It had only been twenty minutes since Franky Doyle had been clutching her stomach, gasping on weeping sobs against the very wall that Bridget was staring at right now.  
  
“ _I fucking killed Meg Jackson!”_

 _“It was an accident, but I did it_ .”  
  
Bridget rubbed the pads of her pointer fingers against her temples.  
  
As a psychologist, Bridget should have been damn-well pleased. A client— who only two months prior, would have laced her heart in stone rather than reveal even an ounce of vulnerability— had, for one moment, let her walls come crashing down.  
  
The _client_ dug deep. She trusted. She unpacked.    
  
Bridget wondered for a moment how many crimes had been disclosed to her before Franky's. How many secrets were divulged, minds unlocked, as patients sat weeping in her office?  
  
Truthfully, she had lost count. And Franky Doyle's confession, along with Bridget's reaction to it, should have been no different to any other of the hundreds of confessions she had heard before today.  
  
But it was, wasn't it? It was so goddamn different.  
  
Bridget's ears were still ringing, and her pulse was still rising, and her heart was still buried deep within her gut.

Her heightened sensations were not bred from fear— the opposite of fear, in fact, and something probably far more dangerous.

Bridget closed her eyes again, and the image of Franky sobbing, sliding down against the cold, white slab of the door, danced along the backs of her eyelids. 

Bridget moved her fingers from her temples to her eyelids and creased her brow, hoping to erase the picture from her mind.  
  
It didn't work. Fuck.

 _"She shat on me like mum did, and that's what I hang onto when I see her dying— I pretend it was mum."_  
  
Bridget gulped.  
  
It had taken damn near everything in her to tell Franky to stop talking. The laws surrounding patient confidentiality applied to just about everything under the sun— except, of course, for ongoing homicide investigations.  
  
But Bridget was fucking kidding herself; she wouldn't have reported Franky if the woman had told her exactly at what angle she drove the shiv into the late governor's chest.  
  
But that was the problem, wasn't it?  
  
Bridget Westfall had been outright kidding herself this whole time. Because all she desperately wanted to do, when Franky Doyle crumbled to the floor not six feet in front of her, was crumble right there next to her.  
  
Crumble and crawl to the door. Take the weeping woman into her arms. Brush the dark fringe from her eyes. Hold her. Never let go.  
  
Bridget exhaled deeply, her breath hitching just the slightest bit, as Franky's defeated voice rang through her ears.  
  
" _You still think I'm a good person, do ya?"_  
  
_[Yes, I do. You are.] "I think you need to absorb what's happened here today. You've started to trust. It's a big step."_  
  
Bridget wondered if Franky had noticed the sudden, rapid, rise and fall of her chest, as it filled with turmoil. Or the way she white-knuckled the stiff arms of the chair, in order to prevent succumbing to pure compulsion and bridging the short gap between their bodies.  
  
_"Came with a price though, hey?"_  
  
_Not that price,_ Bridget desperately wanted to tell her.  
  
[ _I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.]_

But she couldn't, she wouldn't. Not here, within these walls— these walls that had their own eyes and ears, and held every last ounce of power. These walls threatened to rip Franky's dangling freedom away, should they catch even a glimpse of the thoughts tucked away in Bridget's mind.  
  
So instead, Bridget uttered a simple _"You did well today, Franky_ ,” and told her to go get some rest.  
  
And now, still sitting nearly paralyzed at her desk, Bridget looked up at the ceiling as her lower lip twitched and emotion threatened to bubble up in her eyes.  
  
Bridget prided herself on her professionalism— her ability to empathize with, but separate herself from her clients. She had a knack for compartmentalizing emotions and logic, which allowed her to continuously hold the upper hand of complete control.  
  
But somewhere along the way, Franky Doyle, in all her bravado-cloaked vulnerability, had ripped the steering wheel right out of Bridget's hand.

Or, perhaps, Bridget had handed it to her willingly.  
  
This course was dangerous, and Bridget knew that if she didn't hit the brakes soon, they were going to crash.  
  
No, she couldn't risk that. She wouldn't risk that; Franky's safety and freedom depended upon it.  
  
Bridget took one last deep breath and willed her limbs into an upright position. She shook her wavy hair loose before retying it at the base of her neck. She picked up the file folder she needed, checked her swipe card, held her shoulders and head high, and finally exited the office.  
  
She would not let them crash.  
  
But two hours later, when Franky's hand seamlessly slipped over Bridget's, and a bolt of electricity shot up her spine as she felt soft skin caress the top of her knuckle, Bridget wondered if they already had.

**Author's Note:**

> Special shout-out to Ash for the awesome inspo on this one, and thank you to everyone for reading- feedback is always so appreciated!


End file.
